


Our Love is a Disaster, Baby

by AnonEMouse



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Accidental meeting, Clint and Phil take a long time to get together, FIx It, M/M, Phil's kind of a dumb-ss, Poor Clint, Warning: Cheatery cheats ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEMouse/pseuds/AnonEMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Five Times Phil Coulson Lost Clint Barton and One Time He Didn’t</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Love is a Disaster, Baby

_Five – Pensacola, Florida_  


“Hey. Hey, you.”  


Phil stopped, just inside the mouth of the alley. He’d seen the leg protruding from behind the dumpster. Most people wouldn’t look twice, would assume it was nothing more than a bum, passed out after drinking whatever a day’s worth of panhandling could buy. But Phil saw the leg, saw how it was bent. Unnatural. Broken.  


“You awake?”  


No response.  


He crept closer, edging around the dumpster. When he saw what was sprawled on the other side, thrown out like so much trash, he actually felt the blood drain from his face. He dropped to his knees and reached out, checking for a pulse.  


“Reyes!” he shouted, shucking his jacket and wadding it up, putting it under the head. His hand came away coated with blood, sticky. “Call an ambulance!”  


“What, man? What is it?” Reyes stepped into the alley, brows raised.  


“Call an ambulance! There’s a kid back here, he’s been beat to hell!”  


Reyes frowned but didn’t question the order, taking off for the bar they’d just left to make the call.  


Phil turned back to the kid, face so battered it was swollen past recognition, his hair matted and filthy with blood and—Jesus, had someone thrown _garbage_ over the kid’s body? He really hoped, as terrible as it was, that the assailants had done it as an attempt at camouflage and not some careless busboy, failing to notice the _pulverized child_ lying in the alley in need of help.  


The kid was filthy, and it went much deeper than the refuse surrounding him. He was dirty in a way only someone living on the streets could be—the down deep kind of dirty that came from months, years, of hasty hip-baths in truck stop sinks and picking clothes out of garbage cans because even Goodwill was too much. There was a sad story written in the kid’s clothes—tee shirt from a tourist trap in Myrtle Beach, hoodie stamped with the logo of a gym in Savannah, shoes worn clear through, pants more ripped than not. It was fall and he was moving south, so he knew enough not to even try wintering in a big city up north. He was stopping in touristy cities long enough to pick up clothes—a pickpocket, at the very least. And cities close to water and golf courses—rich people meant guilty people, more likely to toss a hungry-looking kid a couple bucks, maybe even buy him a meal.  


Phil’s heart broke. The kid couldn’t be more than sixteen, maybe seventeen at most. An older kid would stay in one place, unafraid of being sucked back into the system but moving around like that—he was hiding. And now he was beat half to death in a shitty alley in a shitty city in a shitty state, literally thrown away with the garbage.  


“Should have stayed in Savannah, kid,” he murmured, gently pressing the kid’s hand between his own. The knuckles were bloody and raw—he’d fought like hell, at least. “Much classier place to end up in a bad way.”  


But the kid was silent, unmoving but for the shallow rise of his chest as he struggled to breathe with broken ribs. Sirens echoed in the distance, growing closer. As the paramedics ran into the alley, Phil stood and stepped back, relaying what little he knew. There was an officer who took his statement and then he was free to go, free to enjoy what was left of his leave before shipping out to whatever hellhole needed Rangers next.  


He was checking out of his motel room the next day, making sure he’d got all his shit together, when the room phone rang. No, he didn’t know the kid. No, he didn’t know his name. No, he hadn’t seen him since the paramedics took him away. No, he wouldn’t let the officer know if he saw the kid because he was shipping out for the Balkans so how would he see the kid anyway? And what do you mean, _you lost him_? He _ran away_? With CPS and a cop on his door and a _broken leg_?  


Phil had to admit. He was kind of impressed.  


//  


_Four – New Orleans, Louisiana_  


“’Scuse me.”  


Phil turned aside and let the young guy with the guitar case go past. His head was down, broad shoulders hunched, feet shuffling along and Phil felt a momentary pang of sympathy. New Orleans was usually a good place for busking but the rains had driven the tourists out of town, making it a rough day to be a struggling musician who probably had more bad days than good anyway.  


The bar was a total dive on Dumaine, and not in that fun, French Quarter, loveably-run-down way, either. No, this place was a straight up tetanus-inducing pit, sticky floor and all. Hydra operatives usually had more refined tastes, which was exactly why Phil had suggested it for the meet. He liked to be that little extra bit obnoxious to the neo-Nazi fuckheads. The contact was a middle-man, really, just an outlier in the organization but Hydra having any interest, however remote, in a place like New Orleans made Phil, and by extension Fury, nervous. Too many old stories of magic and mysticism, too many legends about voodoo priestesses who could raise the dead to let Hydra interest go unchecked. So Phil was working the middle-man, hoping to turn to him, to gain an asset. The mark was at a table in the back, and from the way he was slumped in his seat, he’d already had too much to drink.  


Sitting, Phil said, “Hello, Mr. Angelo. I believe you and I have a friend in common.”  


When the man said nothing Phil glanced up, then swore viciously under his breath. Angelo was dead, and judging by his eyes—still glassy, not even dried out yet—only just so. Even as he called out for someone to call the police Phil was turning Angelo’s head, angling it to reveal the needle-like spike shoved into his carotid artery. It was like the _shuriken_ used in martial arts, and whoever used it to kill Angelo knew what they were doing. It had been thrust in deeply and at an upward angle, ensuring what little blood flow there was ran straight down his neck, soaking into his shirt collar instead of spraying the bar. Such precision was…well just then it was annoying but later it would be admirable, especially when whoever did it remained so thoroughly anonymous.  


The struggling musician never even crossed Phil’s mind.  


//  


_Three – Belfast, Northern Ireland_  


They were halfway through the meet when blood splattered Phil’s face, the CI dropping like a stone with a sickening gurgle and a choked breath. He was dead before Phil fully registered what had happened, his throat shot clean through by an arrow, of all the goddamned things. And now, four hours later, cleaned up and sitting across from a silent Director Fury, Phil wanted answers.  


“I want to know,” he said precisely, staring down his agents, “why we can’t find an assassin who uses arrows to take out targets. He is leaving us his calling card all over God’s green earth, and I, for one, am sick of it.”  


The agents quailed under Phil’s steely regard, the sheer scope of his frustration expressed in calm, even tones.  


“They're custom arrows, sir,” Woo said, swallowing nervously. “No fingerprints, no DNA, no traceable materials.”  


“I didn’t ask for the lab reports on the arrows, Woo. I want to know why we, the best intelligence agency in the world, cannot find one sniper who is so unconcerned with us that he doesn’t worry about leaving identifying personal property behind, and has the sheer, unmitigated gall to kill our contacts right in front of our faces. Is no one else as annoyed as I am?”  


For one second Phil thought McGregor was actually going to raise his hand. Fury steepled his fingers and tapped his lips, hiding his own annoyance.  


“It’s a memorable skill, isn’t it?” A junior agent with a bald head, glasses and a neatly pressed suit studied the photographs from their mystery sniper’s latest hit. “To be able to shoot like that and make his own arrows, too.”  


Phil studied the agent. “Sitwell, isn’t it?”  


“Yes sir.”  


“What’s your point, Sitwell?”  


Sitwell shrugged. “We can’t find this guy. But someone had to teach him, right? Find the teacher, find the student. Like I said, that’s a memorable skill. Someone knows this guy.”  


A slow smile spread across Phil’s face. Finally. A lead. Sort of.  


//  


_Two – Paris, France_  


The arrow passed so close to Phil’s face that the fletching cut his cheek. And all he could do was watch as the arrow drove right through his mark’s eye.  


“Well that’s the op,” Woo whispered from his lookout. “The Hawk got another one.”  


“Goddamn it,” Phil growled, spinning around and searching the rooftops behind him for the shooter. He peered into the night and squinted a little.  


Two rooftops away, a black-clad figure was sprinting for a fire escape.  


“There,” Phil breathed, pointing.  


McGregor, perched in a flat across the street, took a shot, the punch of his suppressed rifle echoing through the comm. The person on the rooftop dropped and Phil ran to the edge of the roof he was on, recklessly leaping across the narrow expanse between buildings.  


“Holy shit,” Woo said, incredulous. “You got the fucker.”  


“You fucking shot me!”  


Phil jerked to a stop, surprised.  


“I cannot believe you goddamned idiots fucking shot me!” He sounded more outraged than in pain.  


“Let us bring you in and we’ll take you to a doctor,” Phil said without even thinking.  


There was an incredulous laugh that ended in a low moan of pain. “Fuck off, asshole. I’m not stupid. The only doctor you’ll show me to is the one that measures me for a box.”  


“No,” Phil called back, jogging to the roof’s edge. The jump was too far to make it to the assassin’s position, but he could more clearly see the man leaning against an air conditioning unit. Shorter than average, wide shoulders. Face hidden by shadows, deliberately no doubt. “You’re too good a sniper to kill.”  


“So you settle for maiming me instead?”  


“You have been something of a nuisance.”  


There was another of those gritty laughs. “Well your sales pitch sucks donkey dick so far.”  


“Come in with us. We’ll give you the full presentation, complete with Power Point and color brochures.”  


There was a beat of silence, then, “Nah, I like my bank account as is. I hear the pay sucks at SHIELD.”  


“You know who we are?” Phil asked, surprised.  


“Buddy, you guys are about as subtle as a goddamned hammer.”  


“We’re the most elite covert ops group in the world. We are the very definition of subtle.”  


“You couldn’t be any less subtle if you had a dude in a metal suit painted like a hotrod working for you.” There was a pause. “You’re also stalling.”  


“No, wait, I give you my word, we won’t lock you up,” Phil called, a little desperate.  


The man moved into view, standing on the very corner of the roof. He was more rugged than handsome, with piercing gray eyes and dark blonde hair. He had ripped the sleeves off his black jacket and tied them in a hasty tourniquet around his thigh, baring his arms, revealing ridiculously huge biceps. He held a compound bow in one hand, a quiver slung across his back.  


“What’s your name?”  


“Agent Coulson.”  


The man nodded once, then he tossed his bow across the gap between the two buildings. It landed directly at Phil’s feet. “Hang onto that for me, will you?”  


“Wait,” Phil called, but it was too late.  


As Sitwell and his ground team burst through the access door, the man grinned and leapt from the roof, landing on the fire escape below and swinging down to the next level. His descent wasn’t as graceful as it could have been, hampered by his wounded leg as he was, but it was still an impressive acrobatic display as he hit the street and vanished into the darkness as the last agent cleared the roof.  


Phil bent down and picked up the bow. It was gunmetal grey, unpolished and unadorned but for a small etching on the riser.  


_Hawkeye_.  


//  


_One – Puente Antiguo, New Mexico_  


Asleep, Clint Barton was beautiful. His tanned skin was a sharp contrast to the white motel sheets, the desert sun had streaked his hair with sun-kissed blonde, and he looked unbearably young, unguarded and relaxed as he was. Phil resisted the urge to touch him, afraid that if he moved even a little bit Clint would wake up and the spell would be broken.  


Clint. Wild, wary Clint. Phil had wanted him for so long, through all the long years he’d been a SHIELD agent and even before, when he was an elusive mercenary that eluded Phil at every turn, until the day Hawkeye walked into the middle of a SHIELD camp in Jordan and asked for his bow back. He never said how he found them, or even knew that Phil was there, he just appeared as if he’d always been with them. Phil fell a little in love that day, and had been sliding further down that rabbit hole ever since.  


But Clint, for all his competence as an agent and confidence as a sniper, had the worst self-esteem of anyone Phil had ever met. Clint let people use him, gave himself away to anyone who asked, and Phil didn’t want to be just another agent Hawkeye slept with. So he held back and became Clint’s friend instead, and over time, Clint stopped sleeping around and started taking care of himself. The arrival of Natasha helped—Barton took care of her, and she took care of him, and together they got better, got stronger. And Phil was happy, he really was. Being Clint Barton’s friend was almost as good.  


And now this, this mess with Thor and the hammer and wormholes in space, and things were changing. Everyone knew it, knew that SHIELD and the world wouldn’t be able to go on living in blissful ignorance for much longer. The cleanup in Puente Antiguo took a few days; Phil stayed behind to oversee the process and set up communications with Foster and Selvig, and Clint stayed with him. There was no need for a sniper in a simple cleanup operation but Phil didn’t order Hawkeye back to HQ. No, he let Clint stay, and that first night after everyone except Sitwell and a skeleton crew left, Clint knocked on his motel door.  


They’d had sex every night, the best sex of Phil’s life. Clint was athletic, enthusiastic, immodest and surprisingly, heartbreakingly sweet in bed. Phil got glimpses of old damage, of a childhood and youth he nor anyone else at SHIELD had ever been able to crack. They had a vague notion that he’d learned archery in a traveling circus, but Sitwell had never confirmed it and Clint wouldn’t talk about it, so it persisted only as a rumor. But the past few nights in bed, Phil had seen the signs of abuse, neglect, desperation, and a deep-seeded loneliness, the kind born of despair. It made Phil hold him that much tighter, and Clint, safe alone with Phil and unconcerned about prying eyes, let go of his famous control and soaked up Phil’s attention and care like a flower opening to the sun.  


The ringing of a phone shattered the silence of the room. Stifling a groan, Phil reached for his cell. Seeing the name on the display, he froze, dread a palpable, sickening feeling in his gut.  


Clint’s eyes opened but he didn’t move.  


“Good morning.” He couldn’t look at Clint. He couldn’t. “Yes, we finished up yesterday, ought to be heading back today, unless there’s another delay.”  


Silent, barely disturbing the covers as he moved, Clint slid off the bed and found a clean pair of shorts, tugging them on as he went into the bathroom.  


“No, I don’t anticipate any more problems. I can’t be specific right now, but I think I should be home no later than tonight.”  


Clint came back in and dressed in his standard SHIELD-issue gear, slinging his go bag over his shoulder. He cocked a brow at Phil and mouthed, _Fury?  
_

Phil shook his head and instantly regretted it as the light faded from Clint’s eyes. “That sounds good. I’ll call you if I’m going to be late.”  


He hadn’t seen him move, but Clint suddenly felt very far away.  


“I’m sorry, Annie, I missed that. Something about Portland?” Phil mustered a laugh. “I know, I know. You can tell me at dinner—that sounds kind of important for a phone call.” He closed his eyes. “I love you, too. See you soon.”  


There was nothing in Clint’s face. No hurt, no anger, not even blame. “I see,” he said softly. And then he was gone.  


//  


_One – New York City, New York_  


Phil came awake slowly. The room was dim, quiet, and antiseptic. His throat was raw, so he’d been intubated, and there was a terrifying ache in his chest, under the haze of the good drugs. He tried to move, wanted to see the damage. It was coming back to him, Thor and Loki and the spear. And Clint, stolen. Things hadn’t been easy between them over the last year but he would be damned if Thor’s punk-ass little brother got to take Clint away and turn him into an automaton. Phil would burn the world down if it meant getting Clint back.  


“Hey, easy there, you’ll pull the staples out.”  


Disoriented, Phil looked around, falling back against the bed when he saw Clint sitting next to his bed. “Hawk…haw—”  


“Seriously, Coulson, relax. I’m here, I’m fine. You’re here, you’re fine. Just lie back.”  


_Coulson_. So. That wasn’t better. That wasn’t fine. He collapsed back in the bed, suddenly very tired.  


Clint stood and moved toward the door.  


“Stay,” Phil croaked. “Don’t…leave.”  


“I’m just going to tell Fury you’re awake. And Stark—he’s practically bugged every inch of SHIELD, trying to spy on your progress.”  


“Come…back.” Phil swallowed and reached for Clint but he was too weak, his hand falling limply on the bed. “Please.”  


Clint studied him for a long moment. “Stark found Annie. He’s flying her in from Portland.”  


But Phil shook his head. “Left. Told her…New Mexico.”  


“Really? Because she was hysterical when Stark got in touch with her.” His skepticism was plain and Phil hated that he’d earned that distrust.  


“Over…really.” He was breathing too hard, panting almost, pain surging up in waves, exceeding the drugs’ ability to hold it at bay.  


“You need to chill, Coulson. You’re starting to hyperventilate. I’m going to get a doctor and tell the others. You can work your shit out when you’re better.”  


“Can’t…lose you. Not…again.”  


Clint was quiet. Then he said, “I’ll stop by tomorrow, okay?”  


Phil closed his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Show you…special.”  


Clint’s smile was a small, fragile thing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Coulson. For now, rest.”  


“Rest,” he murmured. “Clint…okay.”  


“Yeah,” Clint said softly. “We’re going to be okay.”


End file.
